Is it Friday yet?

Changing addresses

noreply@blogger.com (Lynn Price) — Sun, 11 Jan 2009 01:20:00 +0000

Well, I've done it. I've changed addresses over to WordPress because everyone keeps telling me it's better. I like how it lays out, so I hope to see all two of my readers over at:

http://lynnpricewrites.wordpress.com/

Please be sure to change your bookmarks or blogroll.

New! Improved!

noreply@blogger.com (Lynn Price) — Fri, 09 Jan 2009 22:23:00 +0000

Every time I see that label blasted across an item, I switch directions because I don’t believe the product is new or improved. In fact, this is my personal litmus test that this actually gobbedlegook for “we’ve upped the price and crapped out the quality.”

Take my mascara remover. Please. Ba-dump-bump-bump. I’ve used the same brand of remover since the time I stole my sister’s mascara and hid in the backyard while slapping the tar-like goo on my eyelashes. Truth be told, I looked like a stand-in for the Bride of Frankenstein, but at the time I was convinced I was a goddess. My sister busted me and made me wipe it off. Holy shit!! I screamed as mascara globbed down my cheekbones, this won’t come off! No, no, stupid, my sis told me, use the mascara remover. Oh. Much better.

And that’s the way it worked for forty-two years. And then Maybelline came up with their New! Improved! mascara remover. New? Improved? What’s to improve, for chrissakes? Is this new stuff supposed to wipe away wrinkles? If so, sign me up.

Alas, no. The wrinkles remained. And so did the mascara. I had to use more and more just to get the mascara to smudge loose. WFT? I tossed Maybelline out and went for Cover Girl. They were New! Improved! too. Same results. What the hell? I decided to go for the heavy artillery and sucked it up for L’Oreal. After all, I’m worth it. Or so the gorgeous model on TV tells me. So now I’m out eight bucks for what I now believe is little more than purified toilet water, and I have mascara smeared under my eyes so that I look like I have a starring role in Night of the Living Dead.

You know what? The pox on this. I’m using good old-fashioned face cream to remove my makeup. It’s not New! It’s not Improved! It’s called Crackle, and I figure if it can keep my hands from feeling like alligator skin, it’ll do a number on makeup. I’m not going to get sucked in by those rat bastard advertisers who are eager to separate me from my hard earned peanuts. Madison Avenue can go suck stale Twinkie cream and fleece someone else.

Now…about those New! Improved! tampons…

Wha' huh? AAP addresses CAM

noreply@blogger.com (Lynn Price) — Wed, 07 Jan 2009 21:49:00 +0000

Interesting article floated my way (thanks Jack!) about how the American Academy of Pediatrics have seen a rise in patients who utilize some forms of Complementary Alternative Medicine (CAM) and felt compelled to address the issue. For the uninitiated, CAM, as defined by The National Center for Complementary and Alternative Medicine (NCCAM) of the National Institutes of Health (NIH), is a group of diverse medical and health care systems, practices, and products that are not presently considered to be part of conventional Western medicine.

Complementary Medicine means that any of these diverse modalities, such as massage therapy, biofeedback, acupuncture, or guided imagery is used in conjunction with Western medicine.

Alternative Medicine proscribes to exclusivity, meaning that a modality is used in place of Western medicine, like using herbs to treat an infection rather than using antibiotics.

I find this whole issue of CAM and Western medicine holding hands together an intriguing idea, and became the foundation behind my book, Donovan's Paradigm. My character of Kim Donovan is trying to rewrite the medical books, starting with the surgical ward of her new hospital and runs into all kinds of heat.

What I find interesting about this article is its revelation of how some previously wiggy types of treatment wended their way into Western medicine. Things that were thought inane have now gained respectability with the majority of medical personnel. Modalities like the aforementioned acupuncture, massage therapy, biofeedback, hypnotherapy have been tested and integrated into doctors' verbiage and treatment plans.

So much so, that the language of medicine is changing. What used to be CAM has morphed into integrative medicine and holistic medicine, which is a nice way of saying "stuff we're willing to accept because we've tested it enough to prove its efficacy" and "no effing way." It's like a plus and minus column, and those columns shift depending upon the medical community's ability to test it for viable results. I'm hopeful that one day Reiki will move to the plus column.

The article is all quite science-y, but the end result is that the medical community realizes this CAM/Integrative/holistic stuff isn't going to disappear anytime soon, and they're studying it so they can provide better information to their patients.

Damn. Kim would be so proud.

The sweet smell of success

noreply@blogger.com (Lynn Price) — Wed, 07 Jan 2009 18:10:00 +0000

“Don’t burn the dinner, don’t burn the dinner, don’t burn the dinner…”

I’ve never been a fan of my culinary skills. Neither has my family. They bought me an apron one year that said, “Clean your plate; even my dog doesn’t like my cooking.” Hubby got me fridge magnets that say, “Last time I cook, hardly anyone got sick,” and “I kiss better than I cook.” I should be insulted at this unrelenting abuse, but if I can accept critiques on my writing, then I can certainly buck up and accept the fact that I’m challenged in the ways of the kitchen.

So it was with this frame of mind that I began dinner last night. Hubby's our chief cook, but he came home with the flu, so it fell to me to cook a whiz bang birthday dinner for our daughter, who turned 22. Hubby is a great cook. When the kids were young we had a rule; “If you want it now, I’ll cook it and you’ll be quiet about the quality. If you want it to taste good, wait for Dad.”

What to do? I can’t “wait for Dad.” He’s sick. Shitfireboogersnots. Daughter wanted nothing simple – at least not simple in my narrow field of tacos and meatloaf; chicken marsala and fresh spaetzle. I consider ordering out, but the fam would never let me live it down.

So I cooked.

And cooked.

I measured, I beat, I sifted, I added, I sliced, I prayed a whole lot, I cut up, I reduced, I drank three glasses of the cooking wine, and voila – I made dinner.

It.
Was.
Fabulous.

I’m still reeling. The chicken was paper thin scallopines with Marsala and onions. The spaetzle is a messy affair, but dang, not so hard after all. And fabulous. The fam freaked. “Mom, you really outdid yourself.” It’s fair to say that shock was the flavor du jour around our dining room table. But I did it. The lip smacking was as sweet as the best book review I’ve ever had – confirming that I really do love my family more than writing.

I’m thrilled that Daughter’s memory of turning 22 will be a happy one and not one of homemade fire extinguishers, smoke, and lots of swearing. I feel so empowered that I may conquer Duck L’Orange tonight.

Or maybe we’ll just eat leftovers. Hate to push my luck, yanno?

Surprise endings

noreply@blogger.com (Lynn Price) — Mon, 05 Jan 2009 21:08:00 +0000

My day job as an editor always has me looking for the "great ending." I love endings that I didn't see coming - surprise endings. To wit, this little guy has it down pat.

Wesley the Owl

noreply@blogger.com (Lynn Price) — Sun, 04 Jan 2009 21:04:00 +0000

I’m one of gazillions who are writing reviews of this precious story about Wesley, a barn owl that was adopted at four days old by the ever-patient, ever-caring, ever-loving Stacey O’Brien. Of course, her story captured me at the first sentence, but it was her writing style that kept me engaged and eagerly turning the cyber pages on my beloved Kindle.

This is Stacey’s first book, written as an emotional balm to assuage her immense grief of Wesley’s death. What style she has! In my day job, I see so much writing where the author fails to get their emotion from their head and heart to the page. But Stacey accomplishes this effortlessly, and left me in tears or laughing hysterically. I now find myself squealing, “Not for beagles! Not for beagles!” when my unreliable secretary deludes herself into thinking the red editing pen is her personal chew toy.

Being a writer ruins most books for me because I’m constantly critiquing others’ works. I often find myself muttering with a haughty harrumph, “I’d have written it this way,” like I’m all important and God’s gift to the literary community. But Stacey’s writing style not only kept me from channeling my inner editor, I was completely transported to hers and Wesley’s world.

The night I finished the book, I slept like crap because I was in mourning for a little barn owl who’d passed two years prior. For me, he had just died. That’s when I know when a book has affected me; it stays with me for days afterward.

As a writer, I try to look for the non-visual cues when reaching an emotional dénouement by going for the gut of a character's emotional foundation. Stacey had to do this on an hourly basis since she didn't speak owlese, and it's a sure bet his English left a lot to be desired. The patience required to learn to communicate with an owl made me think of how we humans take talking for granted, yet how much real communication actually occurs?

Stacey’s book is deep and thoughtful, and it was a real honor to read it. I found it pretty wild to discover that I use the same vet she did, and I know Michael Steven Gregory and Wes Albers of the wild and wonderful Southern California Writer’s Conference, having spoken there six months after Stacey.

Great job, Stacey. Thanks so much for letting us into your life and showing us the quieter, gentler side of life.

Sucking it up

noreply@blogger.com (Lynn Price) — Sun, 04 Jan 2009 20:29:00 +0000

As the ball in New York began its decent this past New Year's Eve, I took a reflective glance at my goals for 2009 in between quick slurps of my dad’s chocolate martinis. Damn, you just haven’t lived until you’ve sucked down one of those puppies. I managed four until I tripped over my own feet and spit out carpet fibers. My doting husband, Mom and Dad are quite forgiving of this unrepentant drunk, considering I only pull that trick once a year.

I’m not one for resolutions because they seem to be setups for failure. Rather, I look for themes. Last year’s was Survival. Since I’m still breathing, I must have pulled that off with relative success. This year, I decided would be devoted to Passion. If I’m gonna do something, do it with passion.

So far it’s been easy. I’m nearing the end of writing The Writer’s Essential Tackle Box which is like having a personal interview with twenty-five publishing industry professionals, and me. Besides writing, I love the publishing business. Talk about passion in spades. And I get to pour all of my loves, hates, dislikes, wishes, and recommendations into this book that’s designed to give authors the most unique insight to the industry they’ll ever get. Since I’m so passionate about helping authors, this is a no-brainer.

I discovered that writing nonfiction is different from fiction. Fiction requires me to create a made-up world with unreal characters who slog their way through a riveting plot, all while being plausible and compelling. Donovan’s Paradigm sucked me dry because the characters are so deep and complicated. I felt as though I had lived with my siblings for a solid month without a potty break. Truly a horrific thought. But I loved that book, and it seems many of my readers did as well since I’ve been hounded about when the next one is coming out.

And that’s the problem. I think I lack the passion for Kim and Erik right now, which really sucks because I adore them both. But their lives and complications about their medical future and commitment to each other require my complete concentration, and I don’t have that kind of time anymore. Which really sucks.

Some hats are easy to put on, yanno? I can go from being an editor to a mom with no problem. I can go from winning literary awards to getting critiqued to within an inch of my life without batting an eye. But stopping and starting the intensity of Kim and Erik requires a hard hat, and I left mine in my other purse.

I’m ready for something light and airy. Breezy. Dare I say it…women’s fiction? A romantic comedy? This is new territory for me, yet I find myself creating the plot, characters, timeline, and chapters in my mind as easily as burning dinner – something I do with alarming frequency. I feel such passion for this goofy story, which is shaping up to be something of a Bridgett Jones’ Diary variety, that I actually feel guilty for loving it so much. Like I’m being disloyal to Kim and Erik.

It worries me because Kim and Erik are a series of five books. The longer I take to crank them out, the harder it is to promote them. But maybe I should get this silly story out of my system and see where it takes me. I already know it’s achingly marketable, and I have the perfect set of agents in which to query. Maybe after I’ve taken this wherever it’s meant to go, I can get back to Kim and Erik with more clarity.

And maybe, just maybe, the passion that’s fueling this crazy story will portend something pretty cool. After all, I’m a follow-your-heart kinda gal…

Careful what I wish for

noreply@blogger.com (Lynn Price) — Wed, 24 Dec 2008 19:38:00 +0000

What I'd give for a white Christmas. As a Californian, I yearn to awaken on Christmas morning with snow covering every visible surface. What a dream.
.
.
.
Or not...

Holiday shopping at Cos-amillion-co

noreply@blogger.com (Lynn Price) — Tue, 23 Dec 2008 15:49:00 +0000

Finding a parking spot: $500 deductable after ramming the back end of a zippy little car whose driver was far too rude about trying to steal my parking spot.

Finding a shopping cart: $75 – a bribe to a nice gent who emptied his booty in front of the store and had his wife run to get the car.

Grabbing the last 14 pound turkey: a black eye. But you should have seen the other guy.

Navigating the too-small aisles filled with too many people: rammed twice, once with my finger playing the part of my cart’s bumper. Must be payback for the parking lot incident.

Dealing with the umpteenth shopper who insists on parking their cart in the middle of the goddamn aisle: Three teeth-baring snarls, two throaty growls, one “move your damn cart, lady,” and a partridge in a pear tree…

Paying for groceries: “Whaddya mean my ATM card won’t read? Holybatshitkillmenow.” Magnetized strip? What the bloody hell? Merry Christmas Visa.

Getting home and having spawn unload car, put groceries away and stick a margarita in my hand: Priceless.

Edited to add:
It dawned on me that people who don't know me may think these things really happened. Literary license and all that. I'm a writer and given to exaggeration. I should be in politics.

The car ramming: only in my imagination. I got a great parking spot with nary a bruised ego or bumper. I got a shopping cart without bribing a single person, but I did have to wait for Cart Collector Carl to arrive with a new supply. There were five 14 pound turkeys, and I did have to lean in and grab one, where it proceeded to slip out of my hands and fall on my big toe. I really did snarl at the lady in the aisle - that sort of thing pisses me off - but I kept my mouth shut. Paying for the groceries: that really happened. Unpacking the groceries: really happened (I have the sweetest spawn in the world), however, they didn't make me a margarita.

My new hero

noreply@blogger.com (Lynn Price) — Thu, 18 Dec 2008 16:25:00 +0000

I'm hoping Santa brings Dr. Maria Siemionow something extra for Christmas this year. Her amazing talent gave a new face to a horribly disfigured woman. Where this woman would have more than likely faced life as a shut-in, she now has a second chance. Man, how many of us are granted such a chance?

I'm also hoping that Santa has something special for the generous family who looked past their grief and donated their loved one's organs so this poor woman could have a new life. Sort of makes all the other garbage that's going on pale in comparison. Maria, you're my new hero for the month.

Of surprises and beagles

noreply@blogger.com (Lynn Price) — Wed, 17 Dec 2008 00:16:00 +0000

Years ago when my kids were little, I had a special place to hide Christmas gifts – my closet. What a joke that turned out to be. Everyone knew where my hidey place was and, unbeknownst to me, the little beggars would sneak in there and see what they were getting. God, I look back on that and remain impressed at their finely honed acting skills. “Oh, it’s JUST what I wanted,” my little spawns would gush.

I thought those sneaky peaky days were over. They’re all grown up and, presumably, willing to not fake their surprise. However, no one prepared me for this nosey beagle my son brought home from the Army. I’ve adopted her as my unreliable secretary, thinking she could earn her designer gin-laced kibble bits and perch on my messy desk. She sucks at secretarial work, but excels at smelling out anything you’d rather be kept a secret.

Not only did she drag down the new jacket I’d bought for my daughter, but she hauled out the new sleeping bag and three warmie snuggly blankets I got yesterday. It’s not enough that she gets into my daughter’s room and bags her underwear (which is really overpriced butt floss) and stuffs it into the couch. My aged auntie nearly stroked out when she sat on our couch the other day and found three pair of butt floss in the cushions. “Oh my stars!” Gah…I can still hear her shock ringing in my ears.

So now the beagle has destroyed my surprisies for my kids and taken years off my auntie's life expectancy. But you know what? I get the last laugh. I bought the beagle dog training lessons and a stay at the Betty Ford Clinic.

No one can say it better than the Brits

noreply@blogger.com (Lynn Price) — Fri, 12 Dec 2008 21:48:00 +0000

As predicted, the bankrupt UK wholesaler EUK has failed to find a quick buyer for what it is basically an unsustainable business and bankruptcy administrator Deloitte announced today that "700 employees have today been made redundant."

Excuse me. Redundant? They've ended the livelihoods of 700 people, and the best they can come up with is "redundant"? That's like saying Auschwitz was a "little misunderstanding."

As a purveyor of words, I look for them to make an appropriate impact in order to effect an emotional reaction. I'll admit that no one can do subtle better than our British cousins, and I love them for it. We Yanks are so in-your-face with our movies and literature, and much of it is overkill - like we believe our audience too stupid to understand nuance. Instead we belch it out like an overripe onion just to be sure you didn't miss it. Brits, on the other hand - dare I say it - assume their audience has a brain. We could stand to take a page from our across-the-pond friends in both vocabulary acuity and narrative exposition.

But I don't know. Somehow, here, it just sounds cruel.

It's all in how you look at it

noreply@blogger.com (Lynn Price) — Fri, 12 Dec 2008 17:40:00 +0000

Is there any reason why I should wander into a Lens Crafters and find literally thousands of frames THAT ALL LOOK THE SAME? Whatsup with that? There were no less than five designer names, and every freaking one of them were sporting the same designs.

It’s like they have little spies tripping back and forth to each factory. “Hey, DKY has the little roundie jobs in yellow highlighted tortoiseshell,” whispers one spy to the Dior crowd.

“Yellow highlighted tortoiseshell frames for all!” screeches Dior.

Problem is, I look crappy in yellow highlighted tortoiseshell round frames. In fact, I look like Harry Potter in drag. Do I need an excuse to look like shit? Hell no. I can do that all by myself.

And what’s with the rectangle frames. They look fab on Tina Fey. Then again, a burlap sack and flies would look good on Tina Fey. I am not Tina Fey. There are no less than three thousand rectangle frames in Lens Crafters. Bright red ones, orange, diamond studded jobs – which make me look like a bookish stripper. Talk about employment confusion.

What happened to choice? What happened to creative and unique? Imagine if the publishing industry took this route and banged out formulaic and unimaginative books season after season. We’d be out of business within minutes.

I just want a pair of glasses frames that have style than round or rectangle. I want to look good in them, to feel that I can wear them to a function and not look like I’m getting ready to bite someone’s jugular. I want sleek and smooth. Is that so hard to ask?

The last pair I put on drew a comment from the woman trying to make a sale; “Hey, those look great on you. You look just like a famous author.”

Damn, I’m such a whore. I bought them immediately.

What is they say about truth stranger than fiction?

noreply@blogger.com (Lynn Price) — Fri, 12 Dec 2008 16:54:00 +0000

I’m an editor in my day job. About three years ago an author submitted a manuscript about a governor who was caught trying to sell the senator’s seat after the original senator died. He was urged by everyone to step down, but the governor refused because he, as it turned out, was mentally ill. I rejected it.

Reason: foundation is too implausible.

Damn, no wonder we got out of the fiction business.

noreply@blogger.com (Lynn Price) — Fri, 12 Dec 2008 00:28:00 +0000

Rod Blagojevich selling the senate seat to the highest bidder

~~Nationalizing~~ Bailing out the auto industry
Rev. Wright returns to the pulpit
Nationalizing health care
Kissing my 401K goodbye
Higher taxes
My jeans don’t fit
I can’t find a parking spot at the mall
I glorped on my favorite shirt. Again.
Fuck it. I’m with Atlas. Pass me the bucket…

When Karma has PMS

noreply@blogger.com (Lynn Price) — Wed, 10 Dec 2008 18:35:00 +0000

I have this shirt that I paid entirely too much for. But I loved it. It was all the right colors and I looked good in it. Wallet or vanity? Vanity won out. But I think the Karmic Muffins have seen fit to mess with my moment of weakness because not a single day has gone by where I don’t wear my beautiful shirt and spill some sort of glop on it. Once it was so bad, I took it to the cleaners, and they only partially removed the stain. I refused to admit defeat, though, and bought some Spray ‘N Wash. Great stuff. Voila, I was once again stain free. Until the next time, that is.

So the other day I was determined to spend it stain free. Oh, I achieved what passes for my personal best in maximum adorable-ness. My hair decided to look nice for a change, and my brand new jeans were the perfect choice to go with…my favorite top.

Dare I tempt the Karmic Muffin, that skank hormonal biyatch who manages to arrange for every errant flick of spaghetti sauce or gravy to find its way to the front of my shirt? Hell yes. Why not? I was feeling lucky.

I made it through the whole day. I wore my apron while cooking spaghetti – the scene of the last crime committed against my shirt. Ahha, Mistress Karma, you won’t find me asleep at the wheel this time! Dinner was cooked, and oddly enough, not a single spaghetti glorp graced the front of my apron.

It was 10 p.m. – an entire day…stain free. My favorite shirt looked wonderful! I’d beat the bad juju. I’d prevailed. I celebrated my victory with a granola bar while watching the news. As I changed to get ready for bed, what did I see staring back at me in the mirror like headlights on a foggy night? Not one, but two chocolate stains from my goddamn granola bar. I have never, ever gotten a strain from those damnably good chocco pieces in my granola bar. Why now? Off in the distance I swear I could hear the Karmic Muffin chortling. Fuck. Off to my usual date with Spray ‘N Wash.

I wonder why the Karmic Muffin doesn’t have a problem with my new jeans. They were as fresh as a daisy.

DOCTORS vs. GUN OWNERS

noreply@blogger.com (Lynn Price) — Mon, 08 Dec 2008 23:02:00 +0000

DOCTORS

The number of physicians in the U.S. is 700,000.
Accidental deaths caused by Physicians
per year are 120,000.
Accidental deaths per physician is 0.171.

-Statistics courtesy of U.S. Dept of Health Human Services

GUNS

The number of gun owners in the U.S. is 80,000,000. (Yes, that's 80 million)
The number of accidental gun deaths per year, all age groups, is 1,500.
The number of accidental deaths per gun owner is .000188.

-Statistics courtesy of FBI

So, statistically, doctors are approximately 9,000 times more dangerous than gun owners. Remember, 'Guns don't kill people, doctors do.'

FACT: NOT EVERYONE HAS A GUN, BUT ALMOST EVERYONE HAS AT LEAST ONE DOCTOR.

Please alert your friends to this alarming threat. We must ban doctors before this gets completely out of hand. Out of concern for the public at large, I withheld the statistics on lawyers for fear the shock would cause people to panic and seek medical attention.

It's all in the packaging

noreply@blogger.com (Lynn Price) — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 15:48:00 +0000

As a writer, I'm always sensitive to the packaging of products - does the design convey the material inside? - that kind of thing. I'm convinced that most ad agencies hire untrained baboons on crack because the commercials have NOTHING to do with the product. Man, in the publishing industry, we'd be flayed for such practices. Commercials are all about the gimmick, and most of them are such an insult to the viewing public, it makes me weep for the future of firing synapses.

So I got a good laugh out of a teensy article this morning that described how Carl's Jr. is promoting their new sirloin burger. The irony is that Carl's lost their lawsuit against Jack in the Box's gigging them for their Angus burger - "what part of the cow is the Angus?" - I adored that commercial. I got a good laugh because the reporter described the upcoming commercials as, "featuring yet another sexy blond and her slob boyfriend..." Good on ya, smart reporter. You see what many of us old farts see; skank sells, and how pathetic is that?

I can only imagine Carl's market research has proven these slutty commercials successful, and that they're appealing to the younger generation. So skank and stupid sells. Crikey, what have we become? I guess that's why it's been years since I've gone to Carl's Jr. Their commercials are an affront to anyone with a brain, and their packaging sucks stale Twinkie cream.

So Jack, dude, order me up one of your tacos, willya? Love ya, man - here's a free copy of my book.

Happy Birthday to the very best

noreply@blogger.com (Lynn Price) — Thu, 04 Dec 2008 22:17:00 +0000

A very special birthday wish for my hubby, Fred. Fredopolis, without you, I'd be half a sandwich, half a pickle, half a novel, half a brain. You're the salt on my margarita, the verb to my noun, the jam in my jelly doughnut. I love you.

Early morning at the gym

noreply@blogger.com (Lynn Price) — Tue, 02 Dec 2008 16:23:00 +0000

Is there anything more disgusting than some muck-sucking bovine who doesn't flush the toilet? How tough can it be to reach around and push down the damn handle? Instead, I come in, bleary-eyed at 6 a.m., and that's my wake up call. Crickey.

Is there anything more cruel than to hear "I Want Candy" blasting out over the gym music system? Why the hell do you think the gym is so crowded, Mr. 24 Hour Fitness? Geez, have a little compassion.

Is there anything more humbling than watching a reed-thin woman hooked up to oxygen working on the leg curl machine? Talk about character development; makes me want to kick my backside every time I complain about a little hip pain.

Maybe I'll just order online

noreply@blogger.com (Lynn Price) — Mon, 01 Dec 2008 15:06:00 +0000

We spent Thanksgiving week down in Palm Springs, where my parents live. While we were there, we watched the local news in horror as they described how two young women got into a shouting match at the very local Toys 'R Us. As one is wont to do; their male companions decided to sort things out by pulling out their guns and shooting each other. Both died. IN THE MIDDLE OF FREAKING TOYS 'R US.

In Long Island, a Wal-Mart employee was trampled to death early Friday morning as he opened the doors to the store to allow customers. They were so excited to begin their shopping, that they mowed him down. As he fought for breath, people looked down at the floor and simply stepped over him to get to their destination.

Holy Christ. Is this what we've become? We can't Christmas shop because we face being trampled or shot? People are already cranky enough at this time of year; too many gifts to buy and too little money with which to do it. I remember reading stories last year about women getting into fights over a toy. Over a freaking, goddamned toy.

I haven't even started my shopping because I traditionally like to wait until shopper angst hits its apex and threatens to go nuclear. But as I sprout more gray hairs, I feel the tugs of mortality a bit more. Maybe the thrill of making the Big Buy is less important than simply surviving the holidays without losing a vital organ or my life. Whatever my previous motivations, I'm humbled that there are three fewer people who will celebrate Christmas because our sense of humanity took a back seat.

Maybe it's time to forgo the usual holiday trappings and go suck up some mountain air and hug a few trees.

Hype, Hype, Hype

noreply@blogger.com (Lynn Price) — Sat, 29 Nov 2008 17:03:00 +0000

There is nothing that bugs me more than to lay out my hard-earned bananas on a book only to read it and discover the content doesn’t live up to its hype. And I see publishers do this all the time. Being in the business, I realize that it’s a great way to sell books, but at some point you get found out. I feel it’s vital for the hype to live up to the story residing between the covers.

This reminds me of The Bridges of Madison County. I mean, EVERYONE loved the book. My good friend thrust her copy into my hands and gushed about the fabulous love story, the sex, blah, blah, blah. I’m probably the only person alive who hated this book.

I came to the opinion that people got so swept away with the hype they didn’t stop to analyze what elements made the book so good. After watching the dismal “person on the street” interviews and how little the liberal voter actually knew of Obama’s background, I became convinced that Obama’s “publishers” had done an equally brilliant job of hyping a “book” with zero content.

“Obama’s going to fix the economy!” one lady swooned.
“Obama’s going to put gas in my tank and pay my mortgage!” another screeched.
“Obama is going to make this country great again!”

When the interviewer asked who was responsible for the Fannie Mae/ Freddie Mac debacle, their expressions became as blank as a clean blackboard.

It was painful to watch these interviews because these folks had no clue to the realities of the liberal agenda. They go as far as CNN or MSNBC and believe whatever pabulum these propagandists spew out. Obama is an empty story comprised of great cover art, top notch publicists, a publisher who has a bottomless budget, and a readership that has had no exposure to great literature.

Sadly, the Republican publishers’ best efforts resulted in Cranky Old Men Without a Plan, a book with lousy cover art, a small budget, and content that tried too hard to emulate Obama’s story. Cranky failed to sell through, and that’s why Obama became a bestseller.

So now that Obama is a bestseller, will there come a time when some of those readers will decide to reread the book? And if they do, will they love the story just as much as they did the first time? Or will they begin asking “where’s the beef?” Will they suddenly find fault with some of Obama’s supporting cast and ask for more character development of William Ayers, Rev. Wright, etc?

Being in the publishing business, I’ve seen bestsellers plummet from the NY Times Bestseller List. A Million Little Pieces by James Frey comes to mind – a piece of fiction that was hyped as a memoir, and pissed of Oprah after her pathetic, unsuccessful attempts to defend it. Will Obama’s readers abandon him just as quickly? A book has to deliver the goods in order to maintain solid, steady sales.

In the meantime, it would be nice if the Republican publishing house decided to overhaul their management and redefine their mission statement. They need to get authors whose content can stand up to a harsh readership and close scrutiny. I bet they’d sell more books and gain a lot more readers.

Medtopia

noreply@blogger.com (Lynn Price) — Wed, 26 Nov 2008 00:08:00 +0000

So my niece, a nurse for a prestigious oncology clinic in Reno, Nevada, was down for a family reunion. Talk turned to Obama's intent to nationalize our health care. She snorted and said, "All I can tell you is that our clinic is filled with Canadians who are afraid they'll die or their cancer will worsen because they have to wait so long for chemo appointments. They make appointments with us so they can be seen in a timely manner."

Yeppers, I'm damned excited for this brave new utopian world where our overburdened docs and nurses will be unable to keep up with the new overflow of patients. I'm even more thrilled to see the consequences of this clusterfuck when we experience our very huge doctor shortage. And guess who will be the most outraged? Why, the government, of course.

Pay yer taxes and be patriotic

noreply@blogger.com (Lynn Price) — Wed, 26 Nov 2008 00:01:00 +0000

I overheard two ladies talking in the grocery store the other day. One woman was exultant that Obama would make the “rich” pay more in taxes. “Spread some ‘o their excesses around so us poor folk get a hand up,” she said with a derisive snort. Totally pissed me off because, according to Obama, I’m rich. I feel like I’m suddenly wearing a big ol’ target painted on my back that says, “get your freebies here.”

I wish I could have nabbed Ms. Igotmyhandout by the short and curlies to explain the realities of us “rich” folk. We tighten our damn belts, just like real people. We had a gardener for years but decided that our taxes were going to shoot sky high, and we let him go. Buh bye Mr. Gardener. Five more houses in my neighborhood tightened their belts as well. In the course of two days, his client base dropped by half. Same thing happened with our cleaning ladies – I’m still in mourning. Three more houses in my neighborhood let them go, too. We’re still making the same income as before, but those whom we hired and fired are now bringing in far less. So who got hurt in these scenarios – us or those less financially stable?

Resorts are reporting fewer reservations, and people are staying home. This means resorts, hotels, food industries, and all the other support industries will be impacted, and that will result in layoffs.

I wanted to ask Ms. Paymewhatyougot who she thinks gets hurt when you strangle the golden goose. People who have money work damn hard to keep it. Rather than spending it and, therefore, helping to create jobs, they stay home, they tighten their belts. They save their money. So the poor, who Obama so desperately wants to help, are actually going to suck hind teat. And when we “rich” are sucked dry, what will happen to those folks whose hands have been digging into our pockets? Who will be left to rape? Does anyone believe “the rich” will be classified as anyone making $50,000? I’m betting yes because the idea of personal responsibility will have gone the way of the dinosaur.

Sure, it sounds funny now, but hey, I laughed my ass off at Demolition Man when Lenina Huxley told Sly Stallone’s character that anything deemed unhealthy had been outlawed. How long ago did NY ban trans fats from all their restaurants? Not laughing anymore, I tell you.

Thanksgiving California style

noreply@blogger.com (Lynn Price) — Tue, 25 Nov 2008 19:02:00 +0000

I love being a native Californian. With this oh-so important label, I can proudly claim that we are the forerunners to killing Thanksgiving. Claremont kindergartners for years have been celebrating Thanksgiving by dressing up in Pilgrim and Indian costumes made out of construction paper. However, a mother decided that this practice is racist and demeaning, and must be stopped at once.

"It's demeaning," Michelle Raheja, an English professor at UC Riverside and the mother of one of the kindergartners. "I'm sure you can appreciate the inappropriateness of asking children to dress up like slaves (and kind slave masters), or Jews (and friendly Nazis), or members of any other racial minority group who has struggled in our nation's history."

She had the balls to meet with teachers and administrators in hopes that the district could discuss alternatives to celebrate T-giving without "dehumanizing" her daughter's ancestry.

"There is nothing to be served by dressing up as a racist stereotype," she said.

Racist stereotype? Is this woman kidding me? This sort of thing just makes my eyelids invert. Only in California do we derail an entire tradition based on one freaking lib honk. with a liberal agenda. What's worse is the school district is considering canceling the event or having the kids dress up in their spirit shirts rather than dress up in the costumes because "we all have to be sensitive and respect our diversity."

Screw that. If my kids were still small, I'd yank their little butts out of public school immediately. I'd give them a real education and teach them about our history because God knows the schools are dumbing our kids down. Dumb people equal easier manipulation.

Personally, I'd like to reenact another moment in history; the Boston Tea Party.